Never before has a boy wanted more.

I ask you, where else on the internet can you read a blog about chickens which references pop culture, American literary cubists, German romantic opera, science fiction, AND mid-century musicals who which won the Oscar for best picture and arguably shouldn’t have?

Nowhere else. That’s where.

Oliver has been a member of our household now for one week. He’s been Frontlined, taken to the vet, had his vaccines, eaten his weight in canned cat food, and antagonised his fellow felines. His voice shatters glass, and sleep. He’s scheduled to have his num-nums surgically removed this coming Wednesday.

Truthfully, The Man and I are unsure if he’s a good fit for our family. We weren’t looking for another house pet, and we’re not sure we can manage the extra care and expense. I, personally, could really do without the cat fights and the ear-splitting screaming to be released from the Hotel California. But, he landed on our doorstep, so…what are you gonna do?!

As fate would have it, Chicken Debbie told me Monday that her grandparents just put down their black male cat, and may be seeking another. I’ve broken it to the girls that Oliver’s stay might not be permanent.

And, lately, of course, things have going more smoothly, and I don’t want him to go. He has his cute little pink and green plaid collar and a black tag with his name and our number on it. We’re getting into a routine, he doesn’t scream at night anymore, and he won’t be spraying after he’s neutered. (Seriously. He’s an intact adult male living with two other male cats. The smell in the bathroom is…indescribable.)

I’ve learned to managed his anxiety to be let out with wet food and catnip. (Hey, food and drugs. Works for cats, too.) He is, at writing, passed out on on a catnip-sprinkled corner of the living room rug, and it’s not even 4:20.

So, what will it be? I could go either way…

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